th but little luggage,
Lives here quite alone but happy,
Clambers up the steepest mountains,
Over cliffs, through surf is strolling,
Loves to steal along the sea-shore.
Also lately 'mid the ruins
Of the villa of Tiberius
With the hermits there caroused.
What's his business?--He's a German,
And who knows what they are doing?
But I saw upon his table
Heaps of paper written over,
Leaving very wasteful margins;
I believe he is half crazy,
I believe he's making verses."

Thus he spoke.--And I myself was
This queer stranger. Solitary
I had on this rocky island
Sung this song of my dear Schwarzwald.
I went as a wand'ring scholar
To far countries, to Italia;
With much art became acquainted,
Also with bad vetturinos,
And with many burning flea-bites;
But the sweet fruit of the lotus,
Which doth banish love of country
And the longing to return there,
I have never found here growing.

'Twas in Rome. Hard lay the winter
On th' eternal sev'n-hilled city:
Hard? for even Marcus Brutus
Would have caught a bad catarrh then;
And the rain seemed never-ending.
Like a dream then rose the vision
Of the Schwarzwald, and the story
Of the young musician Werner
And the lovely Margaretta.
In my youth I have stood often
By their graves close to the Rhine shore;
Many things which lie there buried
Are, however, long forgotten.
But like one to whom a sudden
Ringing in his ears betokens
That at home of him they're thinking,
So I heard young Werner's trumpet
Through the Roman Winter, through the
Carnival's gay flower-show--
Heard it from afar, then nearer,
Like the crystal which of vap'rous
Fine materials is condensing
And increases radiating;
So the figures of this song grew--
Even followed me to Naples.
In the halls of the Museum
Who should meet me but the Baron
Shaking his big cane and smiling,
And before Pompeii's gate sat
The black tom-cat Hiddigeigei.
Purring, quoth he: "Leave all study;
What is all this ancient rubbish,
E'en that dog there in mosaic
In the tragic Poet's dwelling,
In comparison with me--the
Epic type of all cat-nature?"